Fire and Ice
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series although very out of order . The tag for 'Survival Of The Fittest', 7x23 - SPOILERS. Wincest.


**This is for my lovely soulmate TwinchesterAngel, in an attempt to keep her from throwing herself off a cliff after last night's episode. No one loves our boys like she does. Although, to be honest, I don't imagine this will actually cheer you up at all my dear, lol. As it always does with me, this fic turned really quickly into angst soup.**

**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Survival Of The Fittest', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Sera Gamble.  
**

* * *

"There's no real point lookin' for a tell, they all downloaded Dick's brain! They've all got the same tells," Dean says angrily, gesturing toward the laptop.

"Alright," Sam agrees. "So then maybe the question is, what would the real Dick be doing?"

"Is that the best you can do? Idjits."

Sam spins around, startled – the last thing he expected to see tonight was Bobby's gruff, familiar, only slightly ghostly form, but there he is.

"Bobby," Sam rasps. "We didn't know if you'd –"

"Well you should'a," Bobby interrupts. "You've got the flask! Dumb. You should'a burned it right off."

"Bobby," Dean starts gently, but Bobby cuts in again.

"I'm still jonesin' to go back. Grab some poor bastard and kamikaze him goin' after Dick. It's bad."

Bobby reaches across himself and tugs at his arm, and Sam recognizes the look in his eyes. Sam felt the same way when Ruby had him addicted to demon blood. It's like spiders all over your body, this uncontrollable _want_ that only goes away when you give in. And then, Dick Roman's face appears on the computer. It's an interview of some kind, old or new Sam isn't sure, but Bobby sees it and his face clouds over. The laptop screen slams shut by itself, and the look on Dean's face as it does is almost more terrified than Sam's ever seen it. This isn't going to end well, Sam can feel it.

"Let's be real," Bobby says to Sam. "I damn near killed you. And that woman."

"It wasn't your fault, Bobby. Not really," Sam insists.

"Right. That's just what ghosts turn into. I really bet the farm I could outsmart that."

"So what's it feel like?" Dean asks.

"What? Goin' vengeful? It's an itch you can't scratch out. Look, I'm done. Go get Dick, but don't do it 'cause you think it'll scratch the itch. Do it 'cause it's the job."

Sam nods, tears stinging behind his eyes, and out of the corner of them he can see Dean doing the same. He should have known this was coming, should've seen it for miles, but it still hits him like a wrecking ball.

"And when it's your time?" Bobby continues. "Go."

Sam wants to say something else, anything really, but he's got nothing. Nothing that would make this any better, nothing that would take the empty feeling out of his chest or the heartbroken look off his brother's face. So instead, he moves. He grabs a tarp and lays it out on the table, filling it with cool coals from the fireplace and lighting them up, keeping the burn slow and controlled so they'll heat up enough to melt metal and leather. Dean doesn't offer to help, he just stands over in the corner and looks like it's taking every muscle in his body working on overdrive to keep tears from falling. Sam knows exactly how he feels. Bobby doesn't do much either; he walks over to Dean and says something to him, too quietly for Sam to hear, and Dean nods and looks even more upset but doesn't respond. Sam wants to know what he said, but he doesn't ask. He won't ask, not even after this is over.

It takes a while, but eventually Sam thinks the coals are hot enough, and he wipes tears off his own face that he hadn't realized until now were there, as he gestures for Dean and Bobby. Dean walks over like a zombie and stares blankly into the red glow of the coals, and Bobby follows behind him.

"Here's to … runnin' into you guys on the other side. Only, not _too_ soon, alright?" Bobby says, with that old Uncle Bobby smile that Sam knows as well as he knows his own name, and Sam's insides twist around each other. It isn't fair. He's already done this once, they both have. They already lost Bobby and grieved for him and then found a way to pick themselves back up again and keep going without him. It isn't fair that they have to do it again. In all honesty, Sam's not entirely sure Dean _can_ do it again.

Dean takes the flask out of his pocket, runs his fingers over it a few times, and then tosses it into the makeshift pit. The fire burns bright blue and purple while it catches, surrounding the flask and quickly turning the metal to liquid. Dean looks up at Sam just briefly and then he turns back to Bobby, and Sam swallows thickly as they watch him burn up, just like they have a thousand other ghosts except Bobby doesn't scream – he just smiles. And that's almost worse. It's over in seconds, Bobby is just _gone_, and Sam knows it's for good this time. It's how it should be, Sam was never happy about the idea of him sticking around anyway, but it's just as awful as the first time. Bobby was their rock, their safety net. Without him, Sam and Dean are just so, so alone.

He manages to mostly keep himself together until Dean looks back at him, his beautiful face twisted in sadness and anger and heartbreak, and the tears slips down Sam's cheeks no matter how hard he tries to stop them. When their dad died, Dean wouldn't look at him. He wouldn't look at him at the hospital, he wouldn't look at him at the funeral, he wouldn't look at him for days afterwards. It was excruciating. Sam's always taken comfort from his big brother in one way or another, and Dean just closing himself off like that had almost been worse than losing Dad. But now, six years and thousands of miles and volumes of unimaginable suffering later, and Dean _is_ looking at him – looking like his whole world just shattered into a thousand pieces and he's silently begging Sam to make it better. But Sam can't.

Sam supposes he should be used to this kind of pain by now, to everything going wrong that possibly can; to the world dumping on them over and over and still expecting them to pick themselves up and dust themselves off and keep on going. These things shouldn't hurt this much anymore, after everything he's lost and everything he's been through. But they still do. Bobby was more than just their friend, so much more. In a way, the tightness in Sam's chest means he's still alive. But in another, more significant way, in moments like this, Sam just wants it to end.

He looks up when he hears a funny little sound, breathy and choked like a sob, and the look on Dean's face finally snaps Sam out of his little cocoon of self-pity. Dean's still standing exactly where he was before, but there are tears on his face now, lots of them. It's been such a long time since Sam's seen Dean cry; actually cry more than just a tear or two he couldn't control. Years, maybe. He can't be sure, because Hell and his soulless tour both messed with his sense of time. But still, it kick-starts him like an electric shock. He's at Dean's side in no time flat, grabbing his brother and pulling him in even as Dean resists.

"Don't," Dean says hoarsely.

"Shut up," Sam tells him, letting Dean know in no uncertain terms that this is happening whether his ego wants it or not.

"Sam."

"Please." Sam cups Dean's face in his hands, rubbing the pad of his thumb through the wetness on Dean's cheek. "Don't do this, not now. I don't care about your pride, I don't care about your stupid need to be strong all the time. You're supposed to be sad about this. _I _need to be sad about this, and I need you to tell me it's okay."

It's a hit well below the belt, playing the needy little brother card, because for the most part Sam hasn't been the needy little brother Dean wants him to be in a long time. Sam almost expects Dean to call him on it, but Dean doesn't. He looks like he doesn't have the energy left to call Sam on it. He just sort of nods and lets a few more tears fall and drops his head down onto Sam's shoulder like he can't hold it up by himself anymore. Sam breaks as Dean breaks, sliding his arms around Dean's waist and holding tight and crying into Dean's hair. Sadness just overwhelms him, like fog, like tear gas. It's too much, sometimes, and this is one of those times. Sam can't work out in his own head all the millions of individual things he feels right now, so instead he's just sad. Dean clings to him, one arm around Sam's back and the other around his neck, and that, more than anything, makes Sam ache like his heart is actually breaking.

Cas is there, Sam saw him earlier sitting on the stairs, just watching them like he so often does. So when the tears finally slow, Sam takes Dean's hand and leads him outside. He gently guides Dean into the passenger's seat of this week's Impala-replacement, and climbs into the driver's seat with his head on cruise-control, and drives. He doesn't go far; they can't go far because regardless of everything else they're still on the front line of a war tonight, and they're the whole army. The cavalry can't turn tail and run away just because of one fallen soldier. And besides, it's not like Cas doesn't know. He's been watching them for years, he _must _know. But even just thinking that is all kinds of awkward, so Sam gets them a little ways away, pulls off the highway into a little clearing surrounded by bare trees. He gets out of the car, walks around to Dean's side, and wrenches the door open. Dean turns so his feet are flat on the ground, and Sam drops to his knees in the mud and tugs Dean in close again. Dean doesn't protest. Part of Sam wishes he would.

"It's okay," Sam soothes.

"It isn't," Dean argues, his voice rough and thick, and he's right. Nothing's okay. The last time anything was even remotely close to 'okay', Sam was six months old, and evil was nothing but an abstract concept from the fairy tales Dean says Mom used to read them before bed.

"He's free now, Dean. He'll be happy."

"What're we supposed to do?"

"Keep fighting, like he said," Sam answers, even as his voice breaks over emotions he doesn't have nearly enough strength to control.

"'M so god damn sick of everyone dying," Dean says, resting his forehead against Sam's and squeezing handfuls of his hair.

"I know."

"We could die tomorrow."

"I know that too."

"Don't die without me, okay?"

Sam swallows over a lump in his throat. He isn't quite sure what Dean means by that, but at the same time, he knows exactly what Dean means by that. Dean's lips taste like salt and misery when Sam presses a kiss to them, but they slot against Sam's just like they're supposed to and for just a minute, everything seems right again.

It happens in a haze – somehow both in agonizing slow motion and brutal fast forward. Sam pulls Dean to his feet, kissing him roughly and Dean kisses him back, like somewhere, in the slur of lips and the tangle of tongues and the mingling of breath, there's solace they're both more than deserving of but will probably never really get. Sam doesn't care. It's enough, to have Dean close to him like this, his hands in Sam's hair and his body warm and solid where Sam's pressing it into the side of the car.

They move automatically, like Dean knows as well as Sam does exactly what they both need and no conscious thought is required to reach the decision. Dean tugs Sam towards the backseat, shoving at Sam's clothes as he goes, and Sam does the same. He gets Dean's overshirt off and he gets Dean's pants undone enough to shove them down to his thighs. Dean only gets Sam's shirt unbuttoned, so Sam does the rest as Dean opens the door and sits down on the backseat, lying down on his back and pulling Sam with him. Sam isn't quite undressed and neither is Dean, but they're disheveled enough for their bare cocks to slide together as Sam leans over and kisses Dean until they can't breathe. Sam rolls his hips down, the dry rub of their erections too much and not nearly enough.

"What d'you want?" he asks, words a messy slur against Dean's jaw. He's completely happy to give Dean whatever he wants – Sam doesn't care how or where or in what position they do this. He just wants. _Needs._ It's worse than the demon blood. It isn't a phantom itch, it's _real_. It's life and death, and it's horrible and wonderful all at the same time.

"Over," Dean commands, decisively but softly, and somehow, with only a few bumped elbows and knees, he manages to flip them around so Sam's flat on his back on the bench seat and Dean's hovering above him.

Dean pulls Sam's jeans off the rest of the way, his boxers going after them, and then he swoops down and practically swallows Sam hole, and Sam yelps embarrassingly and stars explode behind his eyes. Dean tugs at his balls as he sucks him sloppily but determinedly, like he's trying to draw every bad feeling Sam's ever had right out through his dick – like sucking out the poison after a snakebite. It's good, _too_ good, hot and wet and perfect, and Sam shudders and pushes at Dean's shoulders after a minute. This can't be it, he needs more than this, and if Dean doesn't stop he won't get it. Dean ignores him, reaching up and pressing the tips of his fingers against Sam's lips. Sam sucks them into his mouth, getting them as wet as he can because he knows neither of them have lube on them. They almost never do this dry, but right now Sam couldn't care less. He wants to feel it, wants it to hurt. Pain means he's still alive.

"C'mon," he mumbles around Dean's fingers, driven almost incoherent by Dean's lips and tongue and by the fact that it's Dean, that it's _them_.

Pulling his hand away from Sam's mouth, Dean reaches down behind Sam's balls and pushes one finger in all the way to the webbing, and Sam moans. He adds another quickly, and then another after that and Sam's whole body is thrumming with barely controlled bursts of pleasure.

"Dean," he breathes, shivering at the loss when Dean pulls off his cock.

"Sammy," Dean answers softly, his voice all big-brother concern and protectiveness – he doesn't want to hurt Sam.

"Need you," Sam whispers. He figures it doesn't count as manipulation if he really _does_ need Dean. And he does; needs him more than oxygen.

Dean nods. He spits into his hand, slicking himself up, and then he tries to maneuver them into some kind of position where this will work; one of Sam's feet up against the headrest and Dean crouched awkwardly, teetering on the edge of almost falling backwards onto the ground. They're too big for this. They've been too big for this since Sam was eighteen. But it doesn't matter. There's still wetness on Dean's cheeks and probably on Sam's too, but his soul feels healed as Dean sinks into him, inch by painstaking inch, until he's buried to the hilt, sewing up all those gaping holes in Sam he didn't really realize were there until they were filled with Dean.

Sam's hands roam up and down Dean's back, his blunt fingernails digging in through the cotton of his t-shirt, as Dean slowly slides in and out. It's a little too dry but somehow it's perfect, and Sam hears himself gasping every time Dean pushes in just a little deeper, a little harder. Dean kisses along Sam's jaw as he rocks down into him, sliding his lips over Sam's skin and nipping at him gently like he's trying to brand Sam, to mark him up so he won't ever belong to anyone but Dean. As if he ever could. Sam kisses back; Dean's cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth, and each one feels like a promise he shouldn't be making because he might not be able to keep them.

Dean balances himself on one hand, reaching down with the other and slowly caressing Sam's thigh before lifting it up, bending it towards Sam's chest so Dean can get inside Sam even deeper. The head of Dean's cock presses into Sam's prostate and he hears himself moan like he's dying, his whole body lit up and hot and cold and spinning out of control.

"Wish this was the Impala," Sam murmurs. Dean looks like he's about to cry with how happy it makes him to hear Sam say that, and Sam pulls Dean's head back down for another slow kiss.

"Shit. So do I," he says.

He takes Sam's hand, guides it down between their bodies and curls it around Sam's cock, encouraging him to get himself off, so Sam does. He comes way too soon, the slide of his own hand against his heated flesh paired with the way Dean's driving his cock mercilessly into Sam is all too good and too maddening and Sam doesn't have a hope of holding out any longer that he does. Dean follows him, though, so it's all okay – stilling briefly above him and groaning something that sounds like Sam's name and shooting his release as deep inside Sam's body as he can possibly get. He falls against Sam's chest when it's over, knocking the wind a little out of them both but Sam just wraps his arms around his brother's sweaty back and holds on.

Sam breathes in the smell of Dean and sex and them; he's sticky and starting to get cold and Dean is heavy on top of him, but he's not moving. They don't have much time, they've already been gone for too long and there are so many things they should be doing right now other than lying in the backseat of a car and holding each other, but Sam can't bring himself to move. It feels so much like every other _last night on earth_ they've had, but somehow worse. It reminds him of the night before Detroit, before he said yes to the devil, and that has tears prickling at his eyes again before the last batch has even finished drying.

"If this was the last time?" Sam says softly.

"Sammy, don't," Dean pleads.

"I have to," Sam insists apologetically. "You have to know, okay? How much you … that I've been in love with you, every minute of my whole life. We've both made mistakes, you know? We've both … but that's never changed. I never stopped loving you."

"I know that, of course I know that," Dean answers, pushing his face further into Sam's neck, probably because it would hurt too much to look at Sam right now. "Me too."

Sam lifts Dean's head up and kisses him again, slow and deep and consuming, because it's all either of them have left.


End file.
